


the wake of regicide and further waking

by tattletold



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Assassination Attempt(s), Dirty Talk, Emotional Sex, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Nursing, Poisoning, Post-Canon, Riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:17:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22232629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tattletold/pseuds/tattletold
Summary: Lorenz makes a sudden visit to the royal palace of Almyra after receiving word of an assassination attempt on the king's life.He would have arrived sooner had Claude not tried hiding the fact from his lover.
Relationships: Lorenz Hellman Gloucester/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 8
Kudos: 234





	the wake of regicide and further waking

**Author's Note:**

> this kept getting longer and longer and by the end i was so tired of not being done that i haven't even read this once over please forgive me for such a shamble of a first attempt at writing claurenz fic

The first thing Claude hears when he comes to is the commotion of him coming to. It only lasts for a minute, many voices in the room panicking before someone decidedly shushes them and he listens to footsteps rushing out of the room. Before he can speak, before he can even open his eyes, Claude feels a heavy, warm hand lay on his forehead. He immediately groans at the touch, suddenly aware of his own temperature that feels quite above boiling.

“Shit,” he hears Nader curse, taking his hand away. “Can you hear me, kid? If you can wake up, you’ve got to, the doctors need to talk to you about what happened.”

His brows furrow, only able to concentrate on half of the words against the uncomfortable feeling of his blood sloughing through his veins. Claude manages a slurred, “what happened?”

“You were attacked returning to the capital, today. It was a failed assassination attempt, the man killed himself before we could get anything out of him besides the fact the arrow was poisoned. We have nobody to ask of it, now.”

Ah, right, he had been returning to the capital. Claude had taken a long tour of Almyra, including his previous home and the more unruly territories that royalty had never passed through before. It was risky, and it was a strong political move, but it had gone well. Claude had done well to meet and acknowledge his people, and just as he was about to consider the entire thing a success returning to the palace…

Nader continues. “We have the best medics in the nation right here in the palace, they’re going to get you fixed up, promise. Is there anyone else we should send for--”

“Lorenz…”

Silence, and Claude can hear the drowsy waver in his own voice. He finally manages to open his eyes just to see the concerned look on Nader’s face looming over him, framed by a number of familiar palace medics.

“You can’t tell… Lorenz… Under no circumstances...”

“_ Don’t _?” Nader asks. "Cl--Your Majesty, you would not have us notify the king's lover of an attempt on his life?"

Claude shakes his head, just able to lift a hand to cover his eyes. Why are the lights so bright in here anyways? Or maybe he's just verging once more on the edge of unconsciousness. Right, that's probably it "Don't alert him," he repeats. "Don't… make him worry."

Sleep takes him again, then, and Claude doesn't have enough reason or sense to even fear that he might not wake up.

* * *

He does, of course. This next time, there are a pair of gentle hands on his face, smoothing the sweaty hair matted to his forehead. There is the same audible surprise at his waking up as the first time, but it is much less chaotic or hurried.

“How are you feeling, Claude?”

But it isn’t Nader’s voice, this time. It isn’t even Judith, or any of the royal medics he has heard on the verge of consciousness for the past… “How long has it been…?”

The woman beside him wipes his face with a cool cloth, and in his delirious state, Claude hears himself moan at just how relieving it feels to not be burning alive for even a brief moment. “The attack was about a week and a half ago--I’ve been here the past four days. Do you remember?”

Slowly, he forces his eyes open, blinking blearily up at the kind figure sitting beside him. He could already recognize her from her voice, but it’s comforting still to see the pale blue of her hair and the blurred outline of a smile on her face. “Marianne…”

She nods, reaching for him again to brush the hair from his forehead. “What a relief; this is the first time you’ve been able to talk with me since I arrived, Claude.”

Without the wet cloth, her hands, as soft and comforting as they are, feel like hot coals branding his face. Claude leans away from the touch reflexively and is grateful when he looks back up to see her staring at him with a sympathetic expression. Any other medic in the palace would apologize profusely just for causing him the slightest discomfort, as is the hierarchy presented in Almyran royalty, when all he wants to do is rest and _ relax _. 

But even on the edge of passing out once more, Claude still has the mind to recognize how strange the situation is. “Why are you here?”

“Judith called for me after being informed by General Nader what happened,” Marianne says readily, having expected the question. “The poison used by the assassins wasn’t anything that the doctors in the palace recognized, even with their healing magic. Judith asked if I would come, and she was right to. It turns out--”

“--it’s from Fodlan, isn’t it?”

Marianne falls silent. Claude peers up at her, curious and searching for answers that are presented openly on her face as she busies herself with anything besides meeting his eye. She dips her fingers in a bowl of what appears to be some medicinal salve on the bedside table before turning back to him and begins to delicately apply it to the sickly yellow edges of his wound peeking out from beneath his bandages.

“It is,” she says quietly. “According to General Nader, the court is in chaos trying to discern the meaning of this revelation. He has been keeping them at bay in the meantime waiting for you to awaken.”

“Does anyone else know?” Claude says as soon as she finishes, and the clarity with which he speaks apparently surprises her if the widening of Marianne’s eyes is anything to go off of.

“No… the entire capital has been heavily regulated, and the palace itself is on complete lockdown save for shipments in. The only letters being exchanged are between General Nader and Lady Judith, and I am the first to enter the walls since the doors closed.”

Claude heaves a sigh of relief. “Good--you cannot tell anyone, Marianne, no matter what.”

As his eyes close, he watches her face change, shifting between concern and disapproval with a bite to her lip before she notices him falling back to sleep. “Claude? What do you mean? I-Isn’t this something that--”

“No one… it’s all just a ruse, obviously, but nobody else… is gonna know--don’t tell anyone.”

Had she given him a sleeping draught? By the way her hands delicately rest on his forehead and neck, checking for his temperature and vitals quickly, he can only assume that his sudden fatigue is just another side effect of this damned poison that is threatening to ruin everything he’s worked for.

“Claude, I-I really don’t think that you should… shouldn’t you at least alert--”

In the last moments of vague consciousness he holds onto, Claude can only recall slurring the words, “_ Don’t _ tell Lorenz, no matter what,” before his fingers slip once more and send him tumbling over the edge of sleep once more.

* * *

Claude isn’t sure how long he’s unconscious the next time. If what Marianne said has any truth, as it likely does, it would appear he has been drifting in and out of being awake for some time now. Not every time he wakes up does he speak with anyone, though, and it takes a while before Claude is aware of his lucidity next.

The first thing he thinks of is how comfortable he feels, oddly enough. The fever that had been present previously isn’t anywhere to be found, his limbs are heavy and numb with sleep, and he doesn’t even remember his injury for the first minute. 

Then his ears are being harassed by the scraping sound of curtains being roughly pulled to the side, followed by his own groan as offensive orange light from the setting sun makes a beeline for his eyes. Only then does he feel the effects of whatever poison he’d been struck with rear their ugly heads again, all drowsiness and sore and spinning rooms. He has been much better, considerably, and has been healing right on track with how Marianne and his other doctors would have him, but it doesn’t mean he should expect to be woken up so brazenly like this. 

Claude drapes an arm over his face to try and block the light from practically burning his eyes. “Nader, what are you--”

He’s not prepared for the poised, sharp voice that is most definitely _ not _ Nader.

“Under no circumstances…” 

A loud clack of a heel. And then another, growing closer. 

Claude feels his heart sink, because of course he realizes exactly who is in his room stalking towards him, and it isn’t his trusted general or his old friend the gentle medic--he grabs the edges of the covers with his good arm and pulls them up over his head in defense. They will do nothing and he knows it, but maybe he’ll look pathetic enough to earn pity.

“You _ cannot _ tell Lorenz,” the voice recites even louder now. “Do not _ alert _ him. Do not _ make him worry _.”

Claude tries to fold himself as far into his blankets as he can without disturbing his injury, but it makes no difference when they’re yanked off of him in one swift motion. Not only is he suddenly exposed to the light coming in from the windows, but he’s also _ freezing _ with only thin slacks on beneath the blanket. Claude hisses, trying to cover his bare upper body with just one arm and shield himself from the tall man looming over him.

“I’m injured, Lorenz, I’m--”

Lorenz narrows his eyes, sneering down over his sharp nose at Claude as if in disgust. “What is _ wrong _ with you, Claude von Riegan!”

It isn’t a question. He isn’t asking for an answer, oh no; Lorenz has come all the way to Almyra with a list of results set in stone, and Claude can tell by his tone that the only option for him as a poor, injured participant unable to run away or sneak through the window is to lay back and play damage control.

Which is why, instead of offering any apology or question, he puts on his most charming, sickly smile and bats his eyelashes up at Lorenz. “I must have died and gone to heaven after all, because you’re--”

Lorenz smacks Claude’s forehead with the back of his hand. “Shut _ up _, you insufferable--you infuriating man!”

Expecting another attack, Claude covers his face with an arm, only for no further fists to come unto him after all. He lowers his hand enough to peer through his fingers, watching as Lorenz glares down at him with a fist hovering in the air as if considering the pros and cons of beating him senseless. So he isn’t _ completely _ safe.

It gives Claude enough of an opportunity to try and sit up in an effort to talk normally. But the moment he puts weight on his left arm, a lightning burst of pain courses up through his shoulder and chest where he was wounded and forces him clumsily back down onto the bed. The one downside of whatever medicine Marianne has been administering him is that, as good as it is at numbing the pain, it only lasts until he forgets he’s even injured and tries to move it. This whole ‘bedriden patient’ role really isn’t for someone like him who prefers to be up, and out, and juggling a dozen tasks at once. As it is, he can’t even _ compose _ himself.

Eyes clenched shut and teeth grit as he waits for the pain to subside, he nearly jumps out of his skin at the feeling of a third hand smoothing down his back. Gently and with enough strength to move him, Claude allows himself to be eased up into a sitting position while he uses his good hand to hold his other arm completely static to prevent any other sudden bouts of pain. It’s only for a few seconds, and Claude is aware of something being moved around behind him when he’s laid back down into a throne of pillows that help him stay upright.

Claude’s eyes flutter back open and search Lorenz’s expression curiously only to find all that rage and anger long gone from his face.

Now, he just looks… tired. Drained of all energy and worn out, his face carved with gaunt lines (how long did it take him to get here? When did he leave?) and telltale red puffiness surrounding his eyes.

Lorenz finally sits on the edge of his bed. With a slow, heavy sigh, his back bends, curving over his lap and covering his eyes with one hand. He speaks quietly. “Why did I have to hear about this from Marianne? That you not only did not tell me, but were trying to _ keep _ it from me?”

Claude’s brows furrow together. “Lorenz--”

“Do not _ Lorenz _ me,” he snaps, removing his hand from his face to reward Claude with a positively _ scathing _ glare. “I had to hear from a secondary source that my own _ lover _ who I have been courting for over a year now was nearly felled in an assassination attempt!”

“It wasn’t that bad--”

He’s never going to get a full sentence in. “Bad? _ Bad _ ? Claude von Riegan,” (Claude cringes. Full name twice in a row.) “it does not matter whether or not you think it was _ bad _ . There was an attempt on your life--and you _ are _ significantly injured, do not even try and lie to me--and you were attempting to keep the truth from me?”

As he speaks, the bite in Lorenz’s words and malice in his eyes gradually morph into something completely different. Anger turns to pain, and all accusations slowly erode down until his pointed tone is merely bumpy with despondence. Whatever invisible threads had been pulling at his temples, the tension keeping his brows pulled taut and his eyes hard are cut until his face falls into a look of grieving. As if he has already been through the entire mourning process and back. Claude wonders if he thought he might need to--he wonders if he already _ has _ on whatever long journey he had taken to get to Almyra so quickly.

In Claude’s world, he has waned between minutes of lucidity, days of rest, days of unrest, and many hours of pain between treatments that he eventually learned to force himself to black out during. If Lorenz told him right now that he has actually been here an entire month, and that they have had this conversation four times already, Claude might as well believe him. The veil of reality inside the King’s bedchambers has worn itself thin enough that Claude could reason through just about anything anyone told him, because what else would he know?

But that is only his perspective.

Lorenz falls into a heavy silence after lecturing him this time, and Claude waits patiently for him to add anything else before trying to speak. Nothing would upset Lorenz more than being interrupted or having nonsense thrown at him, which are unfortunately two things Claude finds himself both purposely and accidentally very good at. Only once the quiet has dragged on for a good minute does Claude reach forward, ever so slowly in case Lorenz decides to lash out once more--and he touches the back of Lorenz’s hand with just the pads of his fingertips.

During what time he could grasp with a present mind, the first thing Claude thought of was his country. Outside these doors, outside the palace walls and even beyond the capital, his Almyra continues to move. People wake, work, eat, and sleep in the same cycles that entire rebel factions, rioters, thieves, criminals, enemies of the public in any amount have their own routine of betrayal and pain that his people are being subjected to. Every second he remains in bed bemoaning his own injuries, far worse is being carried out in places that are so infuriatingly within his reach, remaining only in motion by the fact he cannot keep his eyes open.

And then there are the people close to him. Nader, who has had to take on more authority in the palace than he’d ever agreed to. His medics, with all the stress of their king’s life in their hands. Marianne, who traveled all the way from Fodlan just to offer her selfless aid.

Lorenz, who he purposely tried to keep in the dark.

“Lorenz…” Claude tries again, speaking quietly this time in an attempt to keep from rousing his anger once more. “Those were never… my intentions. The situation was very delicate. They used poisons found only in Alliance territory, on Alliance weaponry. Any wrong move could have sparked an international incident.”

“I know. Nader and Marianne filled me in and…” He suddenly heaves a large sigh, shoulders falling impossibly low as Lorenz’s ever-perfect posture crumbles under the weight of his own grief. Even so, he turns his hand over on the bed and curls his fingers around Claude’s. “I understand… your reasoning. But it does not make me any less upset that… that you did not want me _ worrying _?”

“I knew I would be fine,” Claude supplies, and the wrinkle between Lorenz’s brows is suddenly back.

“Does it matter? I would prefer to worry about you either way.”

“You have your own work, you can’t drop all of Gloucester every time the wind so much as ruffles my hair.”

Lorenz levels him with an unimpressed stare. He reaches out with his other hand, turning fully towards him on the bed, and presses a thumb near the edge of his injury. 

Claude immediately yelps and swats Lorenz’s hand away. “Point made, okay--yes, it was a little more serious this time, but… Like I said, to involve too many people from Fodlan in what was an obvious plot from a rebellious Almyran group would complicate matters. All we needed to know was where the poison came from, and--”

“Do you _ really _think I am only here for talk about politics?” Lorenz interrupts, though with much less venom this time. The hand on his shoulder slowly opens and smooths up the bare skin there, avoiding the injury and resting on his neck instead. Claude can’t resist the urge to close his eyes and bask in the affectionate touch when a slim thumb runs over his jaw and through his undoubtedly messy beard. “For someone so brilliant and clever, you can be infuriatingly dense sometimes.”

“I’m not _ dense _, I know what you’re getting at,” Claude counters as he leans into Lorenz’s hand. “I just… you know?”

“I do not, Claude. I really, truly do not.”

Claude shakes his head. “Then let’s not talk about it--I’m happy you’re here, in spite of everything else.”

Lorenz doesn’t look quite convinced. Probably because Claude had been working hard with his advisors to keep Lorenz far away from his sick-almost-death bed, and Nader and Marianne probably informed him that they were a few of the only words he said while awake.

Claude tries once more, this time tugging on Lorenz’s sleeve in a request that has the other quirking a brow at him curiously. He tugs again. Then he bats his eyes. With a sigh, Lorenz relents and carefully climbs over Claude to lay on his side, facing the shoulder that isn’t injured so Claude can actually turn his head to look at him properly. The hand that had been tugging his sleeve lets go of the fabric in favor of finding the skin of Lorenz’s wrist beneath it and rubbing the soft skin there instead.

Assassins aside, injuries aside, politics and illness and fights aside, it’s been more than just some time since they’ve last seen each other. There is not much leeway allowed for time and travel between both of their positions, and they typically manage to meet only as a result of other political duties or travels. Even then, such visits are brief and fleeting, sometimes no more than a cup of tea together and lingering glances across meeting rooms before one of them is taking off on horse or wyvern-back once again.

The last time they had taken the time to see each other specifically… it must’ve been over four months ago, now. Claude watches Lorenz’s tired face fight sleep beside him and relishes in the simple feeling of his pulse beneath the smooth pale skin of his wrist. Maybe he isn’t the one who should need to be comforted by the feeling of his lover’s heartbeat, right now, but it’s still Lorenz. And any part of his lover he can reach out and enjoy immediately from the confines of his bed is a miracle in and of itself.

After a few minutes of simply laying and enjoying each other’s undemanding presence, Lorenz finally breaks the silence with a quiet voice.

“When I first received word that there had been,” Lorenz sucks in a breath, “an attempt on your life… It felt as if I had forgotten how to breathe.”

Claude’s fingers slow where they had been stroking his wrist. “I’m sorry, Lorenz.”

But Lorenz merely shakes his head. “It’s of no use worth discussing now, what is done has been done. It is just that the two of us have worked so hard to get this, to be here, and the idea that without any knowing, it could just be stolen out from beneath my feet… I have strived all my life to assume my family’s title and all the power that comes with it, and I have achieved it all and more. I have become the man I didn’t know I wanted to be, surpassing all expectations, accepting all responsibilities in stride. Yet I am unable to protect that which is most important to me, even so.”

Claude squeezes his hand. “It isn’t a matter of protecting, Lorenz; I have guards who have trained their entire lives and perform every day specifically to protect me. If that’s all that this is, then you wouldn’t be content anywhere besides my immediate side all day, isn’t it?”

“I know, I _ know _ that, I just do not… want to lose you, Claude.”

“You won’t lose me, you won’t lose me, darling.” 

With a hand on the side of Lorenz’s face, Claude leans in to kiss his cheek, his nose, and every other part of his face he can reach. That range isn’t much, though, so he must settle for smaller pecks to his mouth to make up for it.

“You cannot promise me this, Claude, you and I both know the uncertainties of war--”

“And are we at war, right now?”

Lorenz’s bottom lip puffs out. “No, but the fact remains that you cannot predict the future, nor should you swear on it.”

“I swear on it. You know me, Lorenz; I don’t make promises I can’t keep.” He holds Lorenz’s hand tightly where it rests on the bed between them, and even though the pull of their position has begun making his shoulder ache, Claude forces a smile. “I’ll always return to you. Always.”

Whatever last reserves of anger or concern in Lorenz’s face finally collapse, his face sagging with a sigh that instantly removes years from his sharp features as they soften. Claude doesn’t bother resisting the temptation to rub his thumb between his eyebrows to work out the small knot where they had been furrowed so long until he’s simply massaging the man’s temples for him.

Lorenz’s eyes close, a small smile coming to his face as if he’s only just realized how silly it is for him to be taken care under these circumstances. “How come I want to believe you even when you say the most impossible, ridiculous things?”

“Because you already do.”

“Rather presumptuous of you.”

It could be the fact they fought in one of the world’s largest wars together, or it could be the time they spent as students sitting in the classroom. It could be the way their conversations have become confined to letters, cramming as much as they can and speaking with utmost efficiency through ink and paper what can’t be said in person.

Regardless of where the talent originated, the two of them have become quite talented at each other in just about every possible way, and ending a conversation is one of them.

Their bickering and teasing could go on forever if they didn’t have a stopping point or end goal in mind. In the past, it had been their friends who separated them from blathering nonsense at each other for hours. Then they began courting and found that occupying their mouths elsewhere is a far more efficient use of their time and tongues. 

They don’t meet in the middle, not when Claude can barely move his upper body just to tilt his head to the side. Lorenz, ever so considerate and annoyingly overaware of Claude’s wellbeing, scoots closer on the bed so he can plant his hands on either side of his lover’s head and lean over him to kiss properly. 

And god, it has been so long since Claude has been able to partake in the world’s finest delicacy. He thinks that if more people were as lucky as he is, the Gloucester’s would not be so famed for their roses when the most exquisite treasure of their name could be found on their heir’s tongue.

Claude wants to complain when Lorenz pulls away far too soon, but his tongue immediately runs dry when Lorenz swings a leg over his waist. "Allow me…" he says after clearing his throat. Even as Lorenz straddles Claude's hips, back straight and proper as ever, there's still an unmistakable flush over his high cheekbones that can't be mistaken. He keeps his face still as stone in an effort to appear collected and confident as his hands fall beneath Claude’s chest over his ribs, remaining mindful of his injury and bandages.

Claude, on the other hand, does nothing to hide his shock and gapes up at Lorenz openly. "You want to? Right now?" He had still been anticipating anger, thinking he would have to continue talking Lorenz down from his (admittedly rightful) emotions.

Lorenz, the dear, blinks down at him slowly, the red on his face growing darker. "I… have missed you terribly," he repeats as if it is any reasonable explanation. "My entire ride, I was under the impression you were already as good as lost, and I cannot bear to feel that way ever again. I… please, Claude, do not make me say it."

To make the task any easier on him, because of course Claude will make him say it, he settles his hands on Lorenz’s hips and digs his thumbs beneath his shirt. “I wish you would--I need you, Lorenz. ”

The words come easily to Claude with little obstruction between his mind and mouth, given how open he is with his wants and affections whenever they should strike. But there’s something more than the hesitation that comes with ‘embarrassing’ words like this to Lorenz who has been far more upfront with his feelings ever since they have begun courting.

It isn’t pride or dignity that keeps Lorenz from speaking honestly in this moment. With how rare the emotion is for a Gloucester, Claude can easily recognize the estranged look of fear remaining in Lorenz’s eyes.

He squeezes his hips even tighter. If he could, Claude would make it easier for him. He would sit up and take that dear face in his hands, kiss him and all those silly worries away and bring Lorenz back down to the bed and care for him the rest of the night in the way he deserves. But there is a hole in his shoulder and toxins that make his skin pale running through his veins, and he cannot. So instead, Claude just says, “I’m not going anywhere. I’m not going anywhere.”

Just those words break the dam preventing Lorenz from expressing his wants. “I need to feel you,” he says on a shaky breath. “I need--I need you, and I need you to touch me, to let me touch you--”

It’s finally Claude’s turn to interrupt him. “Then touch me. Everything I have is already yours.”

With the words of affirmation finally setting Lorenz free, he no longer remains statuesque and begins to move. He leans down, pressing his forehead against Claude’s with his elbows propped up on either side of his head and slowly starts to move his hips down against Claude’s. He can feel it, instantly--Lorenz is already hard within his trousers, and with the very thin slacks Claude is wearing, it doesn’t take much friction for him to catch up.

“You were right not to have sent for me,” Lorenz says between breaths as Claude’s hands slide beneath his shirt. “If I had been anywhere near the palace when it happened, there would have been no questioning, no trial, no waiting--I would have had their heads on the spot.”

“That’s a lie. You are far too clever, far too bright for that kind of barbaric reaction.” Claude removes his hands from Lorenz’s clothes just to find the openings of them up top, making quick work of the buttons leading town his chest. “You would have interrogated them, personally, and it would not have taken half as long as the trial my men gave. You would’ve threatened them with everything good and important, even found the names of their families if that’s what it took--”

“--it would hardly be unwarranted; they had the audacity to threaten the last good person in _ my _life.”

“Lorenz, darling, won’t you kiss me already?”

He does, god, Lorenz does. His hands find either side of Claude’s face within a second, and then he is kissing Claude as if he truly had died and come back to life and only this true love’s kiss would keep him alive for as long as it lasted. Claude thinks he has never enjoyed this range of emotions from Lorenz all at once, not even since the end of the war. Back then, they had simply only experienced the delight of victory and the grief of having to separate at once, coalescing in one quiet night where the silence was only interrupted by small laughs and inaudible sniffles, words muffled by pillows. Words muffled by words muffled by lips.

Now, Lorenz is a hurricane of feelings that the man himself probably cannot even process. There is anger, so much _ anger _ directed at so many people, and Claude knows he is included in the sharp teeth that knock against his are anything to go off of. But there is unabashed and unashamed joy in the lips that move against his, the tongue that swipes over every bite he makes. Then there is something that words probably can’t explain in the contact between Lorenz’s palms and his cheeks, some new feeling entirely in the desperate way his fingers switch between clawing at his hair and holding him as if he is something delicate and precious.

All Claude can do is accept everything being poured down onto him in an attempt to keep up with the frenzy of Lorenz’s mouth against him, trying to focus on not being eaten alive by his lover while also removing his shirt. Lorenz only separates for a second to sit up when he feels the last button being undone to shrug his shirt off with a very ignoble, furious movement that could easily have torn the delicate fabric. It doesn’t, but Claude bites his lip in an open display of arousal anyways.

“I truly have gone to heaven,” he says stupidly while his hands roam up Lorenz’s bare upper half and trace the subtle lines of muscle on his way. He is exquisite, and all things beautiful, pretty, and good that Claude has recited to him no short amount of time. Lorenz must be thinking the same thing because he rolls his eyes, just a flash of a smile crossing his face that doesn’t last. It only disappears as Claude’s grin is replaced by a wince, having reached too far up in an effort to touch Lorenz and straining his injury.

Lorenz grabs both of Claude’s hands for himself and holds them still in the air. “Let me do all the work, beloved. You are in no condition to be moving around or exerting yourself.”

“You can’t expect me to sit still while you undress on top of me,” Claude whines, curling and uncurling his fingers at Lorenz in a childish grabby motion. It must work, since Lorenz smiles down at him again with a fake exasperated sigh before leaning back down to press their foreheads together once more. Claude doesn’t even get the chance to lean up for a kiss before Lorenz is doing the honors for him, albeit softer than before.

This time, he deliberately brings Claude’s hands up and presses them to his own chest, now within reach for him to do as he pleases. “Better, you petulant _ manchild _?”

The corners of Claude’s lips curl up as he takes each of Lorenz’s pecs in one hand, using his thumbs to toy with the already hardened nubs there. “_ So _ much.” Lorenz lets out a small, pleased hum at the sensation, giving him a series of small kisses. Each dances closer to what Claude wants from him, bordering on the edge of passion and hurried tongues before Lorenz stops, trapping Claude’s bottom lip between his and restarting the kiss at the same chaste starting point.

Around the fifth time, Claude grows impatient and pinches Lorenz’s nipples harder between his fingers. Instead of complaining or bickering at him as expected, Lorenz finally gives in, the kiss turning sloppy with a messy moan mixed in as Claude continues groping at his chest.

Then, Lorenz is suddenly sitting back up with a huff of heavy breath, and Claude is just revving up to complain when he sees Lorenz reaching for the hem of his own pants. At once, he has very little left to argue about when the inconvenience of Lorenz being out of reach and standing from the bed is getting to watch him practically rip at the laces of his breeches. “I have absolutely--_ no _ patience for foreplay right now.”

“No kidding,” Claude says breathlessly as his vision is filled with even more pale, smooth skin stretching all the way from Lorenz’s back, the curve of his ass, strong thighs, his legs-- “I’d _ really _ appreciate the say treatment right about now, if you don’t mind.”

He says it while Lorenz is crawling back on top of him, and Claude thinks he even hears a small breath of laughter from Lorenz as he does. A glance up confirms it, finding his lover staring down at him with a positively endeared smile that helps the heat that had been threatening to boil over uncomfortably settle into a more manageable, satisfying simmer in the pit of his stomach. Claude smiles back, of course, and reaches up with his good hand to cup Lorenz’s cheek and bring him back down for another kiss while a pair of cold hands busy themselves with the simple tie at Claude’s waist.

“Stay still, don’t try and move,” Lorenz commands quietly as he hooks his fingers at the top of Claude’s pants, shimmying them down gently and lifting his hips by hand so Claude doesn’t have to lift a single finger.

It makes him roll his eyes, speaking as Lorenz reaches across him to the bedside table to fumble for their regular supply of oil. “My shoulder is injured, Lorenz, not my legs or hips or literally _ anything else _. I’m not going to break.”

“Claude,” Lorenz levels him with an unimpressed stare, “I never thought I would say this, but right now you really just need to lay back, stay still, and be pampered.”

It’s torture, watching him unstopper the vial of oil and pour the amber liquid onto his fingers. Being naked does nothing to relieve the strain of how painfully hard and aroused Claude is now, especially when Lorenz, still straddling his hips, reaches his hand back where Claude can no longer see it. All the evidence of his actions is displayed on Lorenz’s face, his brows furrowing and mouth falling open in a silent ‘o’ that leaves Claude groaning.

“You aren’t even pampering me--you _ know _ this is torture.”

“Heh, is it?”

“Lorenz, Lorenz,” Claude whines openly, not even pretending to care for his pride, “be sweet to this lover of yours, he’s already in so much pain as it is…”

Lorenz quirks a brow. The expression quickly changes, though, as Claude can only assume it would when adding another finger. He speaks evenly all the same. “I thought it ‘_ wasn’t even that bad _?’”

“I lied to impress you. I’m in agony.”

“Should I call for Marianne?”

“You’re wicked.”

Lorenz laughs, breathless in a way that takes Claude’s breath away as consequence. It seems the king must finally appear pathetic enough to take mercy on, as Lorenz finally reaches out with the hand not pleasuring himself and taking Claude’s cock between slick, oiled fingers. The relief is immediate as much as it merely ignites the fire that had been brewing all evening, and all Claude can do is exactly as Lorenz said--lay back and be pampered.

He tries to focus on what he has, even if it may not be all and everything Claude immediately _ wants _. There is the weight of Lorenz seated on his lap, thighs twitching around Claude’s hips with every pulse of his fingers inside of them, and then there is the tight, slick heat of Lorenz’s hands relieving him in slow strokes. Claude wants so much more, of course, but this is the most he’s been given all evening, and he isn’t about to demand more immediately from Lorenz’s good graces.

“Do not move,” Lorenz says for the millionth time, slowly pulling his hand out from behind himself and placing it instead on Claude’s waist as he adjusts his position on top of him. The hand jerking him steadily comes to a slow stop, holding him in place as Lorenz lifts himself above him--

He’s technically breaking Lorenz’s one rule when Claude’s neck arches back, head tipping over his pillow as he moans towards the ceiling. Because it has been so, _ so _ long since the two of them have been able to be together, much less feel the heat of his lover around him. From what he can only assume is born from disuse, Lorenz feels impossibly tight, more than he remembers last, and Claude just barely remembers in time to lift his head and watch the show before him.

Lorenz is a _ vision _ perched on top of him, strong thighs keeping himself steady as he ever so slowly spears himself open on Claude’s cock. His face is twisted in a recipe for pleasure, made up of equal parts pain and arousal that tumbles into a low moan once he’s seated atop Claude’s lap at long last.

“I wish I could take care of you,” Claude says between breaths. “I wish I could lay you back and give you what you need, make it so you never doubt for a moment where I am.”

Lorenz groans, clenching around Claude as he lifts himself back onto his knees. “Trust me, I am _ more _ than aware right now,” comes out raspy and broken as he sinks back down, and Claude could come just from watching Lorenz’s head tilt back and reveal the long expanse of his pale neck. He cants his hips up instead, because it’s the only movement he’s allowed, drinking in the sight of Lorenz’s face contorting in pleasure each time.

“Lorenz, Lorenz, just let me--”

“Why can you not just lay back and stay _ still _, you spoiled brat?”

“--you can tie my bad arm around my back so I don’t use it, you know I could fuck you good with just one,” Claude continues as if he hadn’t heard a word Lorenz said. Good he does, too, if the sudden gasp and flush on Lorenz’s face are anything to go off of. The prim and proper fool has always taken a dirty pleasure in being told the most obscene, vulgar words in bed, as much as he would never admit it to the very person spilling such risque filth in his ears.

But Claude can see the evidence of his words now, the cock leaking onto his abdomen with every bounce of Lorenz’s hips, the frenzied pace that continues to shift between a mere grind to properly lifting himself up and falling hard each time. “I’m not… goddess above, Claude, I will _ not _\--”

“How about you at least listen to me, then?”

Lorenz’s eyes peek open, staring down at Claude curiously. There isn’t a hint of any of that cold exterior or shield he would wear around anyone else anymore, like he used to try and maintain when they first slept together. Lorenz doesn’t do anything to hide the sharp panting of his breath or the sweat rolling down his face, his shoulders hunched and posture damned as even now he idly rocks his hips over Claude’s.

The silence is all the confirmation he needs to continue. “Lean back, put your hands on my thighs to keep yourself up--yeah, just like that, baby. Now go ahead and ride it for me.”

Like, this, Lorenz is the image of all things sex and perfect. He arches his back like a bow when he lifts himself once more, mouth falling open and brows pinched together as his knees bend and he spears himself open on Claude’s cock. The moment Claude feels sharp nails dig into the meat of his thighs, he hisses through a smile and clamps his good hand over Lorenz’s waist, preparing for the ride.

Lorenz has always enjoyed some modicum of control in the bedroom. It isn’t about status or power so much as he is simply _ smug _ and loves nothing more than looking down on Claude in moments like this when he knows his lover’s pleasure is solely within his control. The only thing that may come close to that satisfaction is that of looking _ up _ a Claude, typically through hazy, wet eyes as Claude does what he does best and takes care of him. Their current position provides the best of both worlds, given the power he has to wrench Claude’s pleasure from him while also being putty in his hands, willingly sacrificing his control in favor of those sweet honeyed words.

Lorenz’s voice comes out in a slurred, breathless chord. “Claude… darling, _ mercy _.” Claude can’t help but lean back and grin, squeezing Lorenz’s waist in one hand while he bucks his hips up to meet Lorenz as he falls. Even though Claude can’t move as much as he’d please, his words like this have a physical affect, caressing every crevice of Lorenz his hands can’t and slowly coaxing him to release as if Claude were responsible for every sporadic jerk and thrust of his hips.

It wasn’t a lie to assume he could fuck Lorenz without the use of one hand. It wouldn’t be a lie to say he could do so without any hands, or even if he just stopped moving completely.

The shivering, melted mess of a lover grinding down on his cock in waves is evidence of that.

Claude licks his chapped lips. “Doing so good--no, no, don’t slow down now, you’re so close.”

“I can’t, my legs are so tired--”

“You can, come on. Use your hand, touch yourself.”

It’s as if, without Claude’s instruction, Lorenz would’ve never conceived to move his hand from where it is cemented to Claude’s thigh. He does so immediately, wrapping those long fingers around himself and fisting his cock in time with each push and pull of their hips together. As soon as Claude reaches over to help--

Lorenz smacks his wrist with his other hand. “Put that _ back _, Claude von Riegan.”

He lets his hand fall back to the bed obediently, though the look in his eye while staring up at Lorenz is anything but. “I thought I was in charge?”

At once, Lorenz stops.

His hips, poised over Claude’s with just the tip of his cock left inside of him, are still as stone. His thighs don’t even tremble as they’re held up in a half kneel over him, trained with years of horseback riding to remain perfectly tensed to hold his position. But Lorenz’s hand continues to move, pleasuring himself with long, leisurely strokes.

Claude’s legs automatically move in an effort to make contact--and Lorenz folds his ankles over his thighs to keep him steady.

Towering over him, Lorenz licks his lips.

“You do _ so _love to think so, don’t you?”

Every breath of air, the now dull light in the room, all of it shifts in an instant. Claude’s mouth is dry as he stares up at Lorenz, watching in awe as he slowly lowers himself back down on top of him with a contented sigh. He gives a small grind of his hips once he’s seated, and just as Claude tries to lift himself to meet him, Lorenz is lifting himself right back up.

He looks down at Claude with his chin raised high, brow quirked as if waiting for some clever quip from his lover that they both know he won’t be able to resist making in spite of being reduced to a panting, melted mess in Lorenz’s hands. “Given I’m a _ king _, I think I’m allowed the presumption.”

“Oh, Claude,” Lorenz coos as he stops himself just above him once more. With the hand not pleasuring himself he reaches up, collecting all the sweaty hair that had been matted to his face and slicking it back. “Part of being a leader is knowing when to delegate power.”

Like a dam being broken, a bottle being unstoppered, or any myriad of metaphors to account for the flurry of action that occurs once Lorenz finally shows mercy, he moves. Lorenz moves, and he drags Claude along with him by his loins, riding him fiercely in jerky, unsteady movements as he pulls his own pleasure from his lover at a pace only suitable to him. It’s mere coincidence that Claude enjoys himself along the way, and he knows it--it is that consequence resulting to his pleasure that makes Lorenz so desirable, that makes this entire situation so _ delicious _ in how rare and sweet it is to be disregarded.

A king in his own bedrooms, used as a tool for a Leicester noble’s fancy.

Claude von Riegan, ever at the whim of his lover’s desires--and he would never have it any other way.

There is nothing quite like the sight of Lorenz, drunk on power and control he holds over Claude, pleasuring himself with his own hand while using Claude’s body as he pleases. Claude has earned himself the best seat in the house to watching his lover come undone, his movements beginning strong and confident as his hips rise and fall on top of him before the smile falls from his face. His face twists, first in mere bouts of bliss from Claude’s cock hitting the nerves inside him that make his mouth fall open, and then he contorts his entire body with a _ song _, crying out his name repeatedly as his hips stutter, his hand falters, and his body jerks in time with whatever signature he is operating by.

It is not long until Lorenz is slamming himself down upon Claude with finality and coming across his chest in stripes of white, narrating each release with groans that Claude wishes he could bottle and save for the rest of his days when Lorenz is hundreds of miles away. It is torture, being unable to reach for him, being denied the pleasure of his pleasure, and the small smile Lorenz wears as soon as he opens his eyes and looks down at Claude only confirms that he _ knows _ exactly what he does to Claude--it only takes an indulgent roll of his hips and the king is coming with a loud shout inside of him in waves and waves that rises in crest after crest, unable to do anything but ride his release out to the whim of Lorenz’s hips rocking lazily on top of him.

And yet, even as the magic of the moment wears off, and the delicious heated air becomes a cold chill over sweaty arms and chests, muscles sore and slightly uncomfortable, Claude opens his eyes just to find Lorenz even more splendid than before--as if he had merely absorbed every good thing born of climax and found them homes in his flushed little smile.

Lorenz breathes, slowly, and spreads spindly fingers that are still shaking out over Claude’s abdomen beneath him. “Was that so difficult?”

“How are you so _ gorgeous _?”

Lorenz swats his chest lightly. “You are delirious--stay put, I will clean so you can return to rest.”

Claude winces when Lorenz lifts himself up and off of his softening cock, the cool evening air doing nothing to make the transition between sex and the regular world any easier. But Lorenz, the darling he occasionally is, makes quick work wiping Claude down with a towel intended for his injuries before covering him right back up with the sheets he’d ripped off him earlier as well as a thicker blanket.

“I think,” Claude finally manages the breath to say, “if you wanted to keep me staying still, you have found the perfect method; I couldn’t move right now if I wanted.”

He turns his head to rest against the pillow, watching Lorenz wander about the royal bedchambers with all the ease and comfort of a king himself. He is still naked, all long, pale legs and thin hips that Claude cannot take his eyes off of before he finally locates a nightshirt within Claude’s bureau and covers himself up. Claude had been quite hoping they could have an evening laying together bare, legs tangled together, body heat keeping them warm, and then in the morning when they wake…

There’s another gentle flick to Claude’s forehead as Lorenz climbs beneath the covers and scoots closer. At least his legs are still bare, though Claude can’t really roll over to tie them together.. “My body would never be able to handle making love like _ that _ so often.”

“You can fuck me next time, I don’t mind.”

“You writhe far too much for me to be sure you would not open your wound.”

“You can tie me up, then.”

“You better sleep before I consider taking you up on that offer.”

“Why should I sleep so soon?” Claude hums. There is still an unfortunate amount of space between them even with Lorenz laying in bed beside him. He sends out a hand to do reconnaissance of the chasm between their bodies, moving along the sheets until he’s able to locate a much colder hand that immediately curls in his own. Claude smiles. “I’ve missed you too much.”

With the first contact established, Lorenz rolls even closer, still obviously wary of his injury as he delicately wraps an arm around Claude’s middle. During the visits they could spend together as they please in between travels, they would typically sleep as close as their own skin and then some. Claude had become so used to curling up behind Lorenz or vice versa, one always tightly wound around the other until the only distinction between where one ended and the other began was the sudden transition of skin color and body hair between tangled arms and legs. 

“I will still be here when you wake up,” Lorenz says quietly, his fingers idling in small circles on the side above his hip.

“What if you aren’t?”

“Where else would I go?”

“Anywhere you want, I guess.”

Lorenz’s brow furrows, irritated. “This _ is _ where I wish to be.”

“Then you understand me when I say I’m not going anywhere, either?”

He doesn’t say anything. Not immediately. There are certain topics of conversation that Lorenz avoids on principle, and the list only grows when they’re in bed. Given, it is not any optimal situation to begin with having Claude be bedridden with poison and arrow wounds, but Lorenz’s eyes flip through an entire encyclopedia of emotions all at once. It lands on something a little hurt, sore in the way his thin lips part and search for the right words.

When Lorenz finally speaks, his voice is barely a whisper. “...that is different, Claude.”

He shakes his head. “It isn’t. It isn’t different at all.”

“You don’t get to _ choose _\--”

“It isn’t different at all.” The hand in Lorenz’s curls tight in a squeeze, lacing his fingers together with Lorenz’s once he feels him try to pull away. “Believe in me, darling. I would never go anywhere you can’t follow.”

In time, he’ll heal.

Claude’s duties as king will pick up even from before where they left off, and he will struggle to fulfill everything demanded of him in appropriate time. He’ll succeed, anyways. He’ll write to Lorenz and tell him so, and Lorenz will berate him for bragging while also letting Claude know that he had the utmost faith in his ability to do so in the first place. Their letters will continue as usual, and maybe they will be able to meet again in a matter of months.

There are no accidents, no bumps in the road, and certainly no successful regicide plots, not when there is so much work to be done and so little time to waste in carrying it out. Stalls in his schedule are simply not permitted anywhere in Claude’s idea for the next day, or week, or any month or year approaching after that. It isn’t that he cannot work around them--no, he will adjust properly to any unforeseen events that come up, just as he has now.

But there is not even a minute to waste when the number of moons between now and the next time he will have his lover beside him remains so uncertain.

Lorenz closes his eyes, allowing the conversation to follow his breath in a natural lull to sleep. For all his pickiness and being so forward about taking care of Claude, he falls asleep in record time, not even managing another word before the crease in his brow has evened out and those lines at the corners of his eyes that grow longer every time Claude sees him have mellowed out. Lorenz doesn’t let go of his hand, thankfully, and Claude busies himself with memorizing the feel of each street on the roadmap of Lorenz’s palms in the time it will take until sleep comes for him, as well.

Briefly, Claude tightens his grip on the hand in his, and he forces his eyes closed.

It is the least Claude can do to promise Lorenz that, even if they wake in different parts of the globe, they will never wake in a world where the other is not.

If not for Lorenz’s worries, then for Claude’s own.

**Author's Note:**

> [@dreisang](https://twitter.com/dreisang) on twitter


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